Chapter Twenty-One
Isabella
“That Matisse isn’t real.”
I murmured the observation into my champagne, watching people circle the painting like elegant sharks. The Ashworth Estate sprawled around us in all its Tudor glory, centuries of wealth and power carved into every oak beam and limestone wall. The great hall alone could have housed a small museum, its soaring hammer-beam ceiling and stained-glass windows providing the perfect backdrop for tonight’s private exhibition.
The event had drawn exactly the crowd I’d expected. Old money in conservative suits discussed market trends while pretending to understand brushwork. Tech billionaires tried too hard to belong, their new wealth practically screaming against the estate’s ancient tapestries. Banking executives, far too many from Devereux for my liking, moved through the crowd with societal grace, while art dealers watched everything with hungry eyes.
A pity half the pieces were forgeries.
The great hall had been transformed into a temporary gallery, paintings worth millions (or appearing to be worth millions) arranged with careful order. Security cameras tracked every movement, more of them than strictly necessary for an art exhibit, I noted. Armed guards at every exit, too many for a simple private showing.
But then, nothing about tonight was simple.
“His grandfather bought it in 1962.” Charlotte Ashworth, our hostess, sipped her champagne. Her ostentatious diamond necklace caught the light as she gestured toward the Matisse. Confidence radiated from every polished inch of her. “It’s quite well-documented.”
“Of course.” I smiled, letting my gaze drift over the gathered wealth. Through the French doors, I could see more guests arriving—black tie and evening gowns gliding up the gravel drive like preening birds. Reznikov stood by the window, discussing something in low tones with Lord Rutherford. Colton and I knew both men were deeply involved in our bank’s phantom art purchases. Both watched me when they thought I wasn’t looking. “The documentation would be perfect.”
Like everything else about this evening—the sprawling estate with its manicured gardens, the carefully curated guest list, the security that was just a bit too heavy for a simple art exhibition.
A waiter offered me another flute of champagne. I took a glass, using the movement to study the room’s layout. Three main exits, all guarded. A service corridor that probably led to the kitchens. The grand staircase rising to the gallery above, where more security lurked in the shadows.
“The Beckmann is drawing interest.” Charlotte nodded towards a cluster of collectors gathered before a particularly dark piece. “Though personally, I find it a bit...intense.”
I studied the painting—another forgery, though a masterful one. The brushwork was flawless, the aging precise. Only someone who’d spent their life studying such things would notice the nuanced wrongness of the canvas preparation, the too-perfect craquelure. Like everything else here tonight, it was a beautiful deception.
A few couples moved past us, discussing price points and provenance with carefully casual voices. I recognized two of them from bank documents, clients whose art collections existed only on paper. Their wine-flushed faces showed no concern about spending millions on paintings that never moved.
“Lord Rutherford outdid himself with the curation,” I said, matching Charlotte’s practiced tone. “Though I’m surprised he included the Vermeer. Last I heard, it was still in a private collection in Geneva.”
“Oh?” Her eyebrows rose. “I thought the bank had acquired it last month. Your department handled the authentication, didn’t you?”
Before I could respond, I felt him. Colton had that effect lately, like his presence changed the gravity in any room he entered. When I turned, I saw him watching me from across the gallery, devastatingly handsome in black tie.
I could still taste him on my lips.
“The Moreau brothers have always cleaned up well,” Charlotte observed, following my gaze. “Though I hear the reformed criminal is a lot more fun than the lawyer.”
If she only knew what the lawyer was capable of. How his hands had felt on my skin in that vault. How his kiss had burned through every defense I’d built. How he moved now through the crowd with contained power, nodding to the right people, playing his role while watching everything.
Watching me.
He paused to speak with a board member, and I took the moment to study him. His tall form commanded attention without effort—long legs and a narrow waist. When he turned slightly, I caught the flex of muscle beneath fine fabric, the subtle movement of his back as he gestured with those elegant hands. No one looking at him would guess the unleashed power concealed beneath his composed exterior. That underneath those impeccable manners lay something dangerous. Something that made my pulse quicken and heat pool in my abdomen.
“Miss Delacroix.” His voice was smooth as he joined us, slightly aloof. But his eyes… “Admiring the Matisse?”
“Among other things.” I let my eyes drift over his tuxedo, remembering how his shoulders had felt under my hands. “Though some pieces here are more authentic than others.”
Something heated flashed in his expression before he masked it. That lawyer persona sliding back in place. But I’d seen behind that now. I’d seen what hid beneath his careful control.
“Perhaps you could give me your expert opinion on the Degas in the library?” He gestured toward the far wing. “There are some...authentication questions.”
“Of course.” I handed Charlotte my empty glass, ignoring her knowing smile. “Duty calls.”
“Speaking of acquisitions...” Charlotte’s voice took on a particular tone that made me pay attention. “Catherine O’Conner just arrived. Haven’t seen her at one of these since her rather dramatic split from…well, you know.”
I followed her line of sight to a striking blonde in a low-cut ebony dress. She moved through the crowd with easy grace, drawing attention without seeming to try.
Colton tensed beside me, his hand tightening fractionally on his glass. Almost imperceptible, but I’d learned to read his posture.
“You know her?” I kept my voice casual, though something in me bristled at how she openly studied him from across the room. I knew that Colton had been involved with her, but I didn’t want him to know the extent of my eavesdropping.
“She was...almost my fiancée.” His voice was neutral. Too neutral. “Five years ago.”
The word ‘fiancée’ hit like a physical blow. I knew there were others before me, knew his reputation for clandestine liaisons in expensive hotel rooms with absolutely no emotional attachment. But this...this was different. I never imagined he’d been that close to someone else before. For a split second, my vision swirled and I saw red.
“She’s coming over,” I murmured, watching Catherine navigate the crowd. “Tell me what happened, Colton.”
“Later.” But his voice had that edge I recognized, the one that meant old wounds were being reopened. It was the same tone he’d used when he told me about how his father had passed.
“Tell me now.” I shifted closer, letting my hand brush his arm. “Quickly.”
“She was a lawyer at a rival firm. We were together for over a year.” The words came out clipped, strictly measured. “I was going to propose in Paris. Then I discovered she’d been sleeping with her managing partner the entire time. Feeding him information about my cases while fucking him.”
The raw pain in his voice made something fierce rise in my chest. Without thinking, I slipped my arm through his, pressing close as Catherine reached us.
“Colton.” Her smile was as cold as her eyes were calculating. “It’s been ages.”
“Catherine.” He managed to make her name sound like a corporate merger. Polite. Empty. Meaningless.
Her eyes zeroed in on my arm linked with his, then my face. Assessing. Sizing me up. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
I felt him start to stiffen so I acted on instinct. Turning to face him, I let my hand slide up his chest, straightening his already-perfect bowtie. The gesture was intimate and possessive, just what I was aiming for. “Darling, you didn’t tell me Catherine would be here.”
Surprise crossed his handsome features, then understanding. His hand settled on my lower back, warm and steady.
“Isabella Delacroix,” I offered my free hand to Catherine with just the right amount of casual elegance. “Though you’ve probably seen my name on the bank’s authentication papers.”
“The art expert.” Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yes, I’ve heard wonderful things. Though I didn’t realize you and Colton were...”
“Mmm.” I leaned into him slightly, letting my accent thicken. “He’s full of surprises, isn’t he? All that delicious intelligence, hiding such...” I let my eyes drift over him appreciatively. “...unexpected qualities.”
Colton’s hand tightened on my waist. Playing along, but also affected by my words.
“He certainly seems...different.” Catherine’s eyes lingered on the obvious changes in his physique, the new confidence in his bearing. “The gym has been good to you, Colton.”
“Life has been good to me.” His voice carried that quiet authority that I’d grown to love. “Isabella makes sure of that.”
The possessive note in his tone sent heat rippling through me. This wasn’t an act anymore.
“How lovely.” Catherine’s smile turned even colder. “Though do be careful with client relationships. The bank’s top counsel dating its art expert...some might call that a conflict of interest.”
“Some might call sleeping with opposing counsel worse.” The words slipped out before I could stop them, wrapped in faux French politeness.
Colton’s hand flexed against my back—warning or approval, I wasn’t sure.
Catherine’s face froze for just a moment before she caught herself. “Well, this has been delightful, but I see Lord Montgomery waving me over. Colton, always a pleasure. Miss Delacroix...do take care of him. He can be so...needy sometimes.”
With a lingering stare, she turned her back and floated away.
“That was...” Colton’s voice was rough. “Thank you.”
I turned to face him fully, not caring who watched. “She didn’t deserve you.”
He bit his bottom lip, eyes heated. “The Degas in the library still needs authentication.”
“Does it?” I could feel his heart racing under my palm.
“Urgently.” His voice dropped lower. “Unless you’d rather stay here and discuss ex-fiancées.”
Butterflies fluttered in my belly at his tone. “Lead the way, Mr. Moreau.”
We walked separately, each of us on different sides as we crossed the gallery, nodding to the other guests. Lord Rutherford raised his glass as we passed. Reznikov’s eyes followed our movement.
The estate’s west wing was quieter, the sounds of the party fading behind us. A server emerged from a side door, carrying champagne glasses. We waited until his footsteps faded before continuing. Each step felt charged, like electricity building before the lightning strikes.
When we reached the library doors, his hand brushed my lower back. Just for a moment. Just enough to make my breath catch.
The library was dark, lit only by sconces that cast everything in warm shadow. Old books and the smell of antiques filled the air—leather bindings and paper and something else. Something expensive and ancient. But I barely registered any of it because suddenly, Colton was crowding me against a shelf, his body caging mine.
“There is no Degas in here.” I licked my lips, played along with his game.
“No.” His voice was raw, different from the tone he had used just a few minutes ago. “There isn’t.”
His eyes darkened with desire, and his arms went to my waist, backing me into a tiny alcove. Priceless stained glass hovered above my head, and shelves of first editions boxed me in. I was surprised at his boldness, shocked that he’d let his controlled demeanor slip, especially like this. In an off-limits room, at someone else’s estate, surrounded by colleagues.
But honestly, it just made me want him more.
Colton looked at me, his physical needs overtaking him. I watched as his pupils dilated and his breath took on a heavy pitch, as if he’d been running a marathon.
This was nothing like the vault. That had been desperation and adrenaline, fear and discovery. This…This was pure seduction.
Deliberate. Devastating. Deadly.
His mouth claimed mine with the same detail he applied to legal documents, but there was nothing professional about the way his hands snatched at my hips.
I grabbed the lapels of his tuxedo, pulling him closer. The shelf dug into my back through my dress, the leather-bound volumes pressing against the soft satin. His tongue swept into my mouth, and I tasted expensive scotch and barely leashed control.
“We shouldn’t,” I gasped as his mouth moved to my neck. The rational part of my brain tried to remember why this was a terrible idea. Why mixing our investigation and attraction was dangerous. But his teeth nipped at my neck, and all rationality fled.
“Then tell me to stop.” His voice was husky and sensual against my skin. “Tell me you haven’t been thinking about this for weeks. Tell me you haven’t been dreaming about how you felt in my arms in that vault.”
I had. God help me, I had. Being around him was like torture. Knowing what he tasted like. What his hands felt like. How hard his cock could be in his ironed slacks. How he’d looked at me in the blue darkness, all that control stripped away.
Instead of answering, I pulled his mouth back to mine. I needed this—needed him—like my body needed air.
His hand slid up my thigh, under my dress, and I bit back a moan. The contrast of his calloused fingers against my silk stockings made me shiver. When had Colton Moreau, the polished chief legal officer, developed greedy hands like that? He reached my garter belt, and practically growled.
“I hoped I’d find you wearing something like this.” He played with the hook that held my nylons up.
“Someone could come in—”
“Then be quiet.” His fingers quickly found lace and heat. “Can you do that, Isabella? Can you be quiet for me?” His authoritative tone was raw with unbridled passion.
I pressed my face into his shoulder, muffling the sounds he drew from me. Even here, even now, his movements were precise. Finding exactly the right pressure, the perfect rhythm. My nails dug into his shoulders through his expensive tuxedo, and I felt his growl more than I heard it.
“Look at me,” he demanded.
I did. His eyes were wild and hungry. The uptight lawyer was gone, replaced by someone primitive. Someone that made the heat rise and bubble between us. His other hand cupped my jaw, thumb brushing my lower lip.
“You’re insatiable,” he murmured, and then he was kissing me again, swallowing my gasp as his fingers pushed inside me. The shelf rattled slightly as my hips jerked. Some distant part of me hoped the bookshelves were sturdy. That they’d survive what we were doing to them.
“Colton—” His name was a plea on my tongue. For more, for release, for something I couldn’t quite name at this exact moment.
“I know.” He pressed harder, deeper, his mouth catching the sounds I couldn’t contain. “You’re safe with me. I won’t let you fall.”
It had been so long since I’d been with someone. My father’s death had pushed me into a relentless cycle of work and isolation, leaving no room for intimacy or connection. But now, with Colton’s powerful body pressed against mine, every nerve ending sparked back to life with startling intensity. The strength in his arms as they surrounded me wasn’t just physical; it was his unwavering protection, his absolute focus on me alone. I was grateful it was him, only him, who was breaking through those walls I’d built. Someone who saw all of me, the determination, the obsession with my work, the vulnerability beneath, and still looked at me with such hunger. Someone whose control I could trust even as it frayed at the edges.
When I came apart, he kissed me through it, swallowing my cries. His free hand cradled my head, protective even now. Like he couldn’t quite stop himself from trying to keep me safe, even here in this darkened library with my taste on his tongue.
I could feel him, straining and hard against me, and my mouth suddenly felt thick. I wanted to show him the same pleasure he’d shown me; I needed to prove that I, too, was more than what I seemed.
Without thinking, I sank to my knees, looking up at him through heavily lidded eyes.
“Fuck, Bella,” he muttered, watching with rapt attention while I worked the buttons on his slacks. Suddenly he was free, and the sight of him…shook me.
Six months ago, I would have never guessed that our nerdy head of legal concealed such a package. But Colton Moreau was full of surprises, thick and substantial in a way that made my breath catch. The first tentative taste sent heat pooling low in my belly, and when I finally took him fully into my mouth, his reaction was immediate and primal. His fingers threaded through my hair, gripping with careful restraint as a deep, guttural moan escaped from somewhere deep in his chest. The sound of this controlled man losing himself to pleasure was intoxicating.
I wasn’t the kind of girl to get on my knees for anyone, but Colton had earned it. He moved with me, barely able to control himself. But before I could really get going, he pushed away, and instead, pulled me upright, his lips meeting mine.
“What—”
“Not that way. That’s not how it’s going to be for my first time with you.” He reached for his wallet, producing a condom with practiced efficiency. Even in this, he was prepared. I watched as he rolled it on, the sight making my mouth go dry.
He reached for my leg, wrapping it around his narrow hips, supporting me. Then he was inside me, filling me completely, and we both groaned at the sensation.
“Fucking hell…” he moaned, and the roughness of his thrust took my breath away for a second. His control was slipping, just a little, just enough to demonstrate what kind of man lay beneath the surface.
His kiss was fierce now, marked by something almost desperate. Like he needed to prove something—to himself, to me, to the ghost of Catherine’s betrayal. Each thrust drove us both closer to the edge, our breaths mingling in the heated space between us. My fingers dug into his shoulders as waves of pleasure built, threatening to overwhelm me.
When release finally came, it crashed over us both with an intensity that left me trembling. Colton buried his face in my neck, his breath hot against my skin as we both came down from the high.
For a moment we stayed there, breathing hard in the darkness. Then reality started creeping back in. The murmur of the party outside. The weight of what we were investigating. The danger that lurked beneath doctored paperwork and polite smiles.
“We should get back,” I whispered against his mouth.
“Yes.” But he didn’t move. Just studied my face like he was memorizing it. Like he was afraid he might not see it again. “Isabella...”
“Don’t.” I smoothed his lapels, straightened his bow tie. Tried to rebuild our professional facades. “Whatever you’re about to say, don’t.”
He caught my hands, thumbs stroking my wrists. “Why not?”
“Because this is complicated enough.” I met his eyes, letting him see the truth there. “Because there are girls being trafficked through our bank. Because my father died for asking the wrong questions.”
“And because I’m the bank’s chief counsel?”
“Because you make me feel safe.” The admission hurt. Like giving away a secret I’d been keeping even from myself. “And nothing about this situation is safe.”
He was quiet for a moment, still holding my wrists. Still keeping me anchored when everything else felt like shifting sand in an hourglass. “I meant what I said in the vault. I won’t let them hurt you.”
“I know.” I pulled away slightly. “That’s what worries me.”
I left first, pausing at a mirror in the hall to check my appearance. I smoothed my hair, reapplied my lipstick, and adjusted my dress. No one looking at me would guess what had just transpired between the bank’s chief counsel and me among the first editions.
The party had moved to the terrace when I returned. Summer twilight bathed everything in honey-warm light. Somewhere in the gardens, a string quartet played Vivaldi. Waiters circulated with champagne and canapés, everything elegant.
Through the French doors, I watched the other guests; more had arrived during our absence. Reznikov was deep in conversation with Lord Rutherford, their heads bent close. Charlotte Ashworth was introducing a potential buyer to the false Matisse. A cluster of collectors examined the Beckmann with appropriate reverence.
The night air carried the scent of expensive cigars and jasmine. Fountains played in the formal gardens, their sound mixing with classical music and cultured conversation.
I caught Colton’s eye across the room as he emerged on the terrace, his composure nearly perfect—but I could see the signs others would miss. The slight redness creeping above his collar, the barely noticeable swelling of his lips. His bowtie, though straightened, sat just a fraction looser than his usual pristine standard. A few hairs around his temple stood up from where I’d fisted it. To anyone else, he was the same controlled Chief Counsel. But I knew better now. Knew exactly how that control could slip, how those perfect suits could hide passion marks, how those masculine hands could grip with desperate need.
The auction at the Mayfair Hotel loomed ahead of us. Another event where we’d have to maintain our covers while searching for proof of the bank’s darkest dealings.
Only now, everything had changed. The roles we’d planned to play, the art advisor and her wealthy client discovering an attraction, weren’t roles anymore. Not after the vault. Not after tonight.
I caught his eye one last time across the great hall. Even at this distance, I could see the heat in his gaze, the promise of more to come. At the Mayfair, we’d have to navigate more than just corrupt bankers and forged paperwork. We’d have to deal with this thing between us—this dangerous, impossible attraction that threatened to burn through every careful plan.
The string quartet started another piece, but I barely heard it. All I could think about was how right it felt to have Colton Moreau inside of me.